Betting Men
by erbby17
Summary: The only thing to calm England's nerves for Sunday's Germany VS England game is a round of beers and a "healthy" bet... Rated T for language. ENJOY!
1. The Bet

_A/N: FIFA FIC. For the Germany VS England game tomorrow. There will be a sequel. Enjoy_

_I OWN NOTHING!_

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Just one more sip and Arthur would call it a night, prepared to pay the barkeep and head back to his hotel. The next day was a big one and he knew how much sleep he wouldn't be getting that night. Draining his glass, he reached for his wallet, but before his fingers could reach the fabric of his pocket, an all too enthusiastic hand slapped his back.

"Hey, Artie! Fancy seeing you here!"

That obnoxious voice, thick with accent, was hard to miss, especially with such a distinct cackle to follow. "Dammit, Gilbert, what in God's name is wrong with you?"

The silver haired Prussian plopped on the open bar stool beside the temperamental nation, signaling over the bartender to order a tall glass of beer. "Just grabbing a beer," he said, matter-of-factly before raising his hand to signal the man behind the counter once more. "Hey! Barkeep! Make that two!"

Arthur's hand rested on his pocketed wallet, more than anxious to bolt out of the bar and away from his new companion. "I see. So you're eager to get drunk tonight, is that right?"

Laughing, Gilbert reached over and grabbed Arthur's arm, bringing the green eyed nation in close for a tight brotherly squeeze. "Hell no! That second beer's for you, buddy! Although, nothing's gonna stop me from getting drunk, _kesese_!"

None of this was looking promising for Arthur, who was already feeling slightly tipsy from his one and only drink of the night. "Gilbert, please, I'd like to get back to my hotel room before…"

"Before what? You're not gonna sleep tonight! I know you too well, man," Gilbert said, sliding the frothy glass of liquor towards his English friend. "This one's on me."

Arthur sighed and reluctantly accepted the drink. "Thanks, Gilbert," he said, raising it to the air for a ceremonious toast. "To a good game."

Gilbert laughed and clicked his glass against the other. "To West kicking your ass," he proudly stated, bringing the glass to his lips before taking in a swig of the liquid. "Damn, this South African beer ain't so bad!"

Unfortunately, Arthur couldn't join in on Gilbert's opinion of the bar's signature drink. "I'm sorry, what did you say?" He asked sternly, his mind plagued by the thought of the next day's game.

"This beer! It's pretty good!"

"Not the fucking beer, Beilschmidt, what you said before that!"

Red eyes gazed straight through Arthur, as if they were the eyes of a child looking upon the world for the first time. "About West," he said innocently, sipping the booze in hand before his expression took a one-eighty spin for the worst. "His team is kicking your ass to the ground, Kirkland!"

Arthur took a dangerous gulp from his glass and slammed it down against the counter. "Oh, don't you even dare, Beilschmidt! I know my boys and they're ready for another win."

"With that Italian coaching them? Yeah right," he said with an eye roll. "They're too busy marveling at the wonder of _boiling water_. West's team is gonna plow you harder than they did Australia."

Arthur could feel the competitive rage writhe in his body, his eyes burning with an acidic luster. "You take that back," he said, gripping his glass to the point of crushing it in his hand.

"Okay," Gilbert said after a fierce silence between the two. He glanced at his glass, a devilish smirk slithering across his face. "Then let's make this interesting."

"Interesting?" For years, Arthur had juggled between being heated rivals and inseparable friends with the Prussian, and he knew what hid behind Gilbert's smirk. Stifling a lip tremor, Arthur took another sip of the beer. "What's on your mind, Gilbert?"

Gilbert's infamous cackle filled their area of the bar, his glass rising for another toast. "A bet, Kirkland. West's team wins, and you've gotta buy a round of drinks for the boys."

"And if England wins?"

"I'm not done!" The silver-haired man held his glass in the air, his eyes swirling with a storm of ideas. "You buy us drinks," he started, pausing for drama, "in i_this/i_."

Arthur didn't notice the quick workings of Gilbert's free hand, its sudden slapping against the counter eliciting a small yelp from the English nation. The second his hand slipped away, a piece of paper lay on the counter and Arthur glared at it, far from amused.

"Do you always just carry a clipping from the _Victoria's Secret_ magazine with you?"

"No. That's from _Frederick's of Hollywood_," Gilbert stated casually, flicking the piece of paper towards Arthur. "Wear that sexy number when you buy us drinks."

The butterflies in Arthur's stomach batted their wings at a harsher pace once his eyes caught the details of the lingerie on the paper. The thought of him serving the whole German Football team wearing…

No. Arthur was sure his boys would win. That skanky little excuse for "clothing" would never touch his flesh. He smirked and met Gilbert's gaze with a rivaling competitive edge. "I trust this will be your punishment when Germany looses?"

"_If _Germany looses. Which won't happen. And of course; West and I will even get a matching set," Gilbert said, a hint of pink crossing his cheeks.

Arthur laughed and rose his glass against Gilbert's. "To England's victory!"

"To Deutschland!"

Their glasses clicked and drained once a third party joined, the tall blonde sitting on the free stool on Gilbert's other side. "_Bruder_, what's going on?"

"HEY WEST," Gilbert yelled, clinging to his younger brother with a formidable force of love. "Artie and I are just enjoying a few drinks!"

Arthur gave Ludwig a meek smile, a new surge of competitive edge electrifying between the two blonde nations. "Evening, Ludwig," he said.

The German nation nodded back politely, signaling over the bartender.

"You know what," Arthur said, leaning forward over the counter. "The next three are on me," he said to the bartender, getting an excited laugh from Gilbert.

"Arthur, you're not supposed to buy is drinks until tomorrow night," he said to a baffled Ludwig.

Arthur smirked, waiting for the drinks to greet them at the counter before sliding them over to his German companions, raising his glass to his lips. "That's what you think," he said, taking a mighty gulp of his beer. He could almost taste his victory.

"What about tomorrow night?" Ludwig asked, taking cautious sips of his beer before deeming it worthy for consumption.

"The game, West! Arthur and I have a bet going on: loser buys the winning team drinks!"

Ludwig smiled, leaning over the counter to shoot another healthy gaze of sportsmanship towards Arthur. "Then he better be prepared. Löw can hold his liquor quite well."

And eruption of laughter roared through the bar, the tall blonde's entry into the betting game adding to the fun of the night. Arthur already accepted the fact that he wouldn't get any sleep that night; he just didn't think he'd be spending it at the bar.

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**A few notes:**  
- England's coach, Fabio Capello, is Italian. I had to throw a canon joke in there somehow. xD  
- Victoria's Secret & Frederick's of Hollywood are notorious stores for selling women's underwear, the latter better known for selling lingerie.  
- I have no idea how well Joachim Löw [the German coach] can hold his liquor, but for this fic's sake...XD

**_~erbby_**


	2. The Win

_A/N: After a good game this morning/afternoon, here's the second and final chapter to this little FIFA fic. Enjoy! And once again, nothing is mine._

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After two more rounds of drinks and a stumbled-walk back to his hotel during sunrise, Arthur woke up with a pounding headache two hours before his boys were set to play. He scrambled out of his bed and dressed in a hurried mess, banging into walls and getting caught up in clothing and hangers. But thankfully enough, he made it to the stadium in time for the game.

…and by the end of the match, Arthur regretted ever waking up that day. Before his head dropped into the cradle of his palms, he saw that ominous white glow bolt through the stands towards him. That fucking bet.

"FUCK YES, FREE DRINKS," he heard that piercing voice yell before behind pummeled by it to the ground. "THAT WAS AWESOME. WEST WASTED YOU, MAN!"

Met with friendly punches mixed with suffocating hugs, Arthur slightly hoped this entire day had never happened. "Gilbert. Get off," he groaned, pushing the Prussian away and not even daring to make eye contact with the overjoyed albino.

Standing up with that signature pride, Gilbert brought out the infamous clipping from the previous night, waving it in front of Arthur's face. "So, I take it you're a medium, right? Because," Gilbert started before his eyes narrowed into deep red slits, "because I bought it this morning."

"YOU WHAT?"

"Well," Gilbert choked, his neck now tight in the clutches of the raging Briton. "I figured…y-you had no chance, holy fuck Arthur, I can't breathe!"

Arthur could feel his body shaking, his desire to kill Gilbert at an all-time high. "You figured I'd _lose_?"

"A-arthur! I…"

"_Bruder_," the deep voice of Germany said beside the duo, returning the air to Gilbert's lungs and the calm to Arthur's blood. Ludwig turned to Arthur, a proud yet humble smile on his lips. Outstretching his hand, he mimicked the same sportsmanship of his players. "Good game," he said.

In all honesty, Arthur couldn't say no to a bout of manners such as this. He set his previous rage aside and returned Ludwig's gesture, giving the match's winner a well-deserved handshake. "Good game, Ludwig."

"Now let's head out to the bar," the blonde added with a smirk, and Arthur once again felt his dignity plummet as Gilbert's laughs rocked the stadium harder than an army of vuvuzelas.

Arthur and Gilbert were the first two at the bar, for preparation's sake. Of course, their first stop was to the restroom where Gilbert revealed the teal, baby doll style top with its little-to-the-imagination lace trim and matching thong. Arthur shuddered, but there was no turning back now, Gilbert out in the bar reserving the entire tavern to the German team. He held his lingerie out in front of him, taking a deep breath before completing the first step of the bet. "It's just for tonight, Arthur. You can do it," he said, stripping down and slipping on the thread of underwear.

Fully "dressed", Arthur waited in the stall before Gilbert's return which, of course, happened with a pungent scent of liquor.

"Hey Artie, you ready yet?"

"Jesus, Gilbert, are you drunk already," he said, stepping out of the stall to an obnoxious wolf-whistle.

Gilbert laughed under his breath, one hand preoccupied with holding a beer, the other outstretched for Arthur. "Lookin' sexy, Kirkland. Now get out there and help our boys celebrate."

Rolling his eyes, Arthur slipped on the matching teal heels (and he knew he wouldn't last long walking in them) and cautiously took Gilbert's hand. "I take it they're in the bar already?"

Gilbert nodded and as Arthur stepped out of the bathroom, slapped an excited hand upon the Englishman's revealed bottom. "HERE'S YOUR BARMAID, BOYS!"

Cheers mixed with laughter and twenty-five full glasses of beer lifted into the air. Another joined as Gilbert raised his glass and joined his brother's victorious team.

Arthur merely stood by the door, his hands cupped over his groin, awkwardly bulged in the lacey panties. "I see that…everyone already has their drinks, yes?"

Another round of cheers illuminated the bar and Arthur took another deep breath; he had gone this far in this ridiculous get-up. It couldn't hurt to start drinking. Puffing out his decorated chest, Arthur found a grin and stepped forward. "Alright, alright, but I'm cutting you off at three, Neuer," he said, a pointing finger of disapproval at the German team's goalkeeper. Arthur figured the team knew his identity by this point, many of them joining in on the joke of England's second-but-not-counted goal.

By his third beer, Arthur had forgotten about the match, his revealing display a successful part of the night's entertainment. He danced upon the counter and joined in tempting drinking games and eventually lost his frilly top and glossy shoes. He was able to, once again, congratulate Ludwig on a game well played and before passing out on midfielder, Mesut Özil's lap, paid for well over 100 drinks. It was indeed a good game, with an even better after party.

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_THANKS FOR READING! I hope you all enjoyed the fic AND today's game. Because I know I did. ;D_

**___~erbby_**


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